Dreamwalker
by Alexilaihorox
Summary: Stiles Stilinski wakes up one day to find himself in an entirely new life. And then another. And another.


It's a weekend—Stiles is sure—and so he doesn't really get why he's lying awake in his bed, staring at the glowing 8:00 A.M. blinking back at him from his phone screen. Sleep still clings heavily to him, making it hard to figure out what woke him up, since he wouldn't be up this early on a weekend on his own. No way.

The reason presents itself soon enough, warm breath washing over the back of his neck, a tanned hand tightening in the material of his shirt over his stomach. He's confused for all of two seconds before he remembers that Scott's parents are out of town for some pseudo-honeymoon and he's staying over for the week, promptly relaxing back into the embrace.

"You're warm," Scott mumbles sleepily, voice husky from disuse overnight, and the sound has Stiles suddenly aware of the erection pressing uncomfortably against his pajama pants, of the fact that Scott's hot body along his back, coarse voice in his ear is only stiffening it further.

"Probably 'cause you slept all over me last night," he quips, unable to help himself even though it's way too early for any kind of sarcasm.

"Ha, ha," Scott says, yawning between the words, and Stiles can't help but find it incredibly _endearing_. Well, most everything Scott does is endearing, because that's just how he _is_.

He turns a little in Scott's arms, just enough to lay on his back, phone forgotten on his nightstand. Scott lets out a pathetic sounding whine, adjusting his grip on Stiles, one leg thrown across Stiles's and _oh_—he's not the only one with a problem.

He laughs softly, leaning his head against Scott's, the fluffy hair tickling his cheek. "Dude, why are you even awake?" he finally asks, yawning himself. They were up nearly all night playing dumb video games, and Stiles really doesn't understand why they're not sleeping in. It's what weekends are for.

"Forgot I told Deaton I would come in to help today," Scott grumbles, nosing into Stiles's neck. "He called a little bit ago. Wants me there in an hour."

"But dude—" Stiles starts, voice bordering on just as pathetically whiny as Scott's. He'd been planning on laying in bed all day, kissing, touching, just _relaxing_ before the stress of exams at the end of this semester. He _hadn't_ been planning on Scott ditching him to go play vet, leaving Stiles by himself all day. That wasn't the plan at all.

Scott shushes him with a kiss, warm hands pressing into Stiles's sides in a way that has him effectively shutting up, lips parting as he sucks in a breath, threads his hand through Scott's terrible bed head. If there's one thing that Stiles loves more than Scott, his parents, sleep—it's kissing.

Morning breath and all, kissing Scott is probably his favorite thing to do, and he takes advantage of their positions, slinging his free arm around Scott's neck so he can't pull back yet. "Just a few minutes," he breathes, tugging Scott just that much closer to scrape his teeth over the other's lower lip ever so gently.

Scott outright _moans_ into his mouth then, fitting himself more firmly on top of Stiles, capturing his lips in a deeper, hotter, more searing kiss that's suddenly all tongue and teeth, and when Scott ruts down against Stiles's _way too hard dick_ he lets out his own breathy, choked sounds, Scott swallowing them down with every movement, every kiss.

It doesn't take long for them to finish, mouths fervently devouring each other's moans all the while, trying to keep quiet so Stiles's dad doesn't walk in on them, if he's even still home.

The heat builds until Stiles feels a little like he might burst, the kisses, the touches, the warm breath ghosting over his sweaty skin, the _thrusts_—it has his body stilling as orgasm washes through him, Scott following not long after. He can tell by the way his breath catches, hands gripping too hard at the pillow beneath Stiles's head.

And then he's relaxing back into said pillow, panting to regain his lost breath. He grins slyly up at Scott, opens his mouth to tease him for being even more out of breath than Stiles, until he remembers— "Oh shit."

"Stiles, Stiles—" Scott gasps, and it's not sexy, not sensual. It's nearly panicked, the tone finding Stiles shoving Scott off of him—gently, of course—and grabbing his inhaler off the nightstand, shaking it and uncapping it before pressing it between the other's lips.

"Hey, hey, breathe Scott, you're okay," he mumbles distractedly, more focusing on not killing his best friend—boyfriend?—by way of dry humping than anything else. That would just…really suck, and what on Earth would he tell Mrs. McCall?

_Well you see, I kind of coerced your son into getting off with me before he left for work, and I gave him an asthma attack. Sorry._

"What's that look on your face for?" Scott asks a minute later, breathing mostly under control again, eyebrow raised at Stiles questioningly.

"Nothing," Stiles answers, quirking his lips and moving to get up off the bed. "Just thinking about what I would have to tell your mom if you'd died on me."

Scott chokes a little, his face going red enough to match the shirt he slept in. "What," he says, tone too flat to be a real question, but Stiles knows it for what it is.

"I mean, can you imagine what I'd have to tell her?" Stiles continues, untangling his leg from his blanket and moving to pick up the little orange bottle on his nightstand, dumping one of the longer release Adderall capsules into his palm. "Death by orgasm, Scott. How do you even write a headline about that seriously?" he asks, grabbing his water bottle and swallowing the pill quickly.

"Stiles, what the hell?" Scott questions between coughs, voice just as confused as his adorable brown eyes, and Stiles is pretty sure his everything just melted. Damn Scott and his pretty eyes.

"You gotta admit though," he rambles on, smirking. "That'd be a pretty great way to go, you know? Like dude, can you imagine—"

"I have to shower," Scott cuts in, stumbling out of bed and right past Stiles, headed toward the bathroom.

Stiles knows he's trying to escape the weird conversation, but they've had much, much weirder, and Stiles is not to be deterred. "Can I come?" he asks, bouncing on his toes as he follows Scott to the bathroom.

"Only if you promise to actually shower," Scott says, trying to sound stern and Stiles snorts. "'Cause I need to be there in like, thirty minutes. I don't have time to mess around right now."

Stiles's nostrils flare in offense and he pounds one fist into his palm. "I'm not completely incapable of focusing, dude," he says, trailing into the bathroom behind Scott and shutting the door after himself. "It's just you know, most times. Not all," he admits.

"Stiles," Scott starts patiently, turning to put his hands on Stiles's shoulders, fingers squeezing lightly. "Shower."

"Shower, right, yes," Stiles says, swallowing and licking his lips, eyes roving over Scott as he does the _thing_. The thing where he reaches back over his head, and tugs his shirt up the dumb, _attractive_ way that guys in movies do, and—

"_Stiles_!"

"What!"

"You most certainly cannot," Stiles says, refusing to budge on the subject.

"I don't have _time_ for this Stiles, and your parents are gone!" Scott protests, trying to jump to reach the keys in Stiles's hand. "My bike doesn't go fast enough to get me there in time."

"She's my baby!" he retorts, brooking no room for argument. "No one drives her but me."

There's a brief glaring contest that Scott wins, but only because he cheats, hands in Stiles's wet hair to drag him down that teeny bit for a kiss and stealing the keys while he's distracted. It's completely unfair, and Stiles makes sure he knows it too, whining loudly as he nearly tackles him into the door.

"Foul play!" he shouts, stealing the keys back and spinning out of Scott's grip, tugging the door open and practically sprinting to his Jeep sitting in the driveway.

"Stiles!" Scott calls, voice frustrated, and Stiles considers it a win. Scott's always much more fun when he's doing more than daydreaming about making first line on the lacrosse team, or puppies.

"I'll drive you," Stiles offers out of the goodness of his heart. It has nothing at all to do with the fact that it's a Sunday and he has absolutely nothing to do if Scott isn't around. Lydia is too busy with Jackson and Aidan, Allison and Isaac have some kind of date planned, Liam and Mason are out boy watching with Danny and Ethan, and Malia is off with Derek (someone they probably shouldn't be hanging out with anyway—can you say creeper pedophile?) to meet with her biological father for the first time. (A psychopath so far as Stiles is concerned, and he's a very good judge of character. Seriously). And Erica and Boyd…Stiles doesn't even want to think about what they might be too busy doing.

"I don't know if Deaton will let you stay," Scott warns as they get in, buckling his seatbelt and cursing at the time.

"The Doc loves me," Stiles says, starting the Jeep up and backing out onto the road. He's not exactly sure if it's true, considering how _cryptic_ and _weird_ Deaton can get, but really, _everyone_ loves Stiles. So therefore Deaton loves him too.

"Maybe you can clean the kennels," Scott snickers after a few minutes, and Stiles makes sure to hit the pothole on Scott's side, if only to see him furrow his brows, pouting Stiles's way. "Hey—"

"Hay is for horses," Stiles says, speaking over him, grinning wide.

"Stiles, really," Scott starts, tone more serious. "What's with you today? You're more—" he cuts himself off, but Stiles has no problem filling in the words.

"Annoying than usual?" he finishes for Scott, voice more bitter than he wants it to be, but it's not like he's _trying_ to be annoying.

"I didn't say that," Scott says placatingly, hand on Stiles's arm as he pulls into the parking space. It's a pretty shitty job, he admits to himself, but it's not like he was ever great at parking to start with, and he's not really in the mood to care now.

"But dude, you were _going to_, and it's okay, I get it," he says, lips twisting downward into something of a frown. "You're busy anyway, I'd just be in the way."

"Stiles—" Scott tries, but Stiles cuts him off before he can say anything else.

"It's really okay," he assures him. It really is. He knows what he's like—hyperactive, spastic, easily distracted, and too snarky for his own good. He knows this, and he's even worse without his Adderall, which hasn't quite kicked in yet.

Scott just kind of gives him this look, all sad puppy eyes and frowns and it's not okay at all. "How about this?" Stiles suggests, drumming his fingertips on the steering wheel, eyes on the clock. Scott's just a little over six minutes late and counting. "You get out and go in and do your vet things, and I'll go get breakfast, yeah?"

"Are you sure?" Scott asks, eyes lighting up at the thought of food.

"Oh my _god_, yes." Stiles nods, punching Scott's shoulder lightly to get him out of the car. "I'll go get some food since neither of us ate this morning, and I'm pretty sure Doc hasn't either."

"Okay," Scott agrees, smiling. "I'll see you soon then?"

"Yep," Stiles says, drawing the word out and popping the 'p,' grinning when Scott gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before hopping out of the Jeep. The simple touch shouldn't make him feel as good as it does, but well, it kind of does. And he's not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

"What is all that?" Scott asks, tilting his head as Stiles sets down several bags on the front counter of the clinic.

"Food," is Stiles's answer, because isn't it obvious?

"Yeah, but that's a lot. Way more than I can eat right now," Scott says, raising an eyebrow. "Why'd you get so much?"

Stiles shrugs, fingers tapping against the countertop. "I didn't know what you'd want, so I kind of got a lot of stuff. And I dunno what the Doc likes either, so…" he trails off, drawing the sound out.

"What did you bring?" said doctor asks, coming out from the back room and sniffing hesitantly at the bags on the counter.

"Good ol' Mickey D's," Stiles says, nodding and poking through the different bags. "Couldn't get any burgers yet, because it's not after ten thirty, but I got some pancakes and McMuffins and stuff."

"Delightful," Deaton says, and Stiles isn't sure if he actually means it, or if he's being sarcastic, because with his tone it really could be either. Could be anything. Damn cryptic doctors and their stupid cryptic everythings.

"Thanks, Stiles," Scott says, derailing that train of thought with his bright smile and dumb, crooked jaw line.

"Heh, yeah," he mumbles in return, digging out his own box of pancakes, opening the syrup and dumping it all over them—hopefully it'll help, at least a little.

They're about halfway through the bags Stiles brought—give or take—when a frantic woman bursts in the clinic door, a man behind her carrying a wounded dog. Stiles thinks it might be a husky, judging by its looks and he jumps back as it snaps at him, blood spraying from its muzzle onto his face.

He barely hears the woman—"It just jumped out in front of us and we couldn't avoid it and we didn't know what to do!"—too focused on the fact that there's blood on his face, and it's not that Stiles can't handle blood, it's just that he doesn't much like it on _him_ when it's not _his_.

Scott is there seconds later, handing him a wet paper towel as Deaton takes the dog into the back, the distraught couple following after. It takes Stiles almost a minute to get his face clean, and by then he's a little more in control, swallowing down panic and thoughts like _What if it has rabies and I'm gonna die? _to instead fix Scott with a grin.

"Kinda reminds you of the first time you met Allison, huh?" he asks, tossing the paper towel and wrinkling his nose.

"A little," Scott admits, biting his lip before laughing slightly. "Well yeah, a lot. Almost exactly the same actually, except this one looks like it's in worse shape…" His voice fades out as he turns his head toward the back, obviously torn between making certain Stiles isn't going to faint (and really that was just one time, and there was a lot more blood!) and checking on Deaton and the dog.

"Hey, I'm fine," he tells Scott, giving him a light shove towards the back. "Go play hero and make sure the thing is okay."

Scott smiles at him gratefully. "You can have the rest of my food, I think I'll be too busy to finish it."

"Sure," Stiles agrees, even though he's pretty sure it's all going in the trash now. Nothing like a run over dog spraying you with bloody spittle to take away your appetite.

The couple comes out just as Scott heads into the back, the woman's face whiter than Stiles thought faces could get, the man looking much more composed, but still a little green around the edges.

"It wasn't on purpose," the woman babbles, pressing a handkerchief to her face. "We didn't m-mean to."

Her husband—boyfriend? brother?—doesn't look like he knows what to say, so Stiles unscrews his face from its uncomfortable expression, pasting on the most soothing smile he can. With a quick look to the man to make sure he won't attack Stiles for touching the lady, he pats at her shoulder awkwardly. "Hey it's okay, we know. It's not your fault, sometimes things like this just happen, but don't worry okay? The Doc knows what he's doing."

"Are you sure?" she asks, voice choked and Stiles remembers why he didn't want to join Scott and Isaac working here—it's hard to watch people cry and not cry with them.

"Positive. He's the best there is—" he starts, interrupted by a shout from the back that sounds a lot like his name.

"Stiles!" Scott yells again, louder this time. Stiles can't help cursing a little in his head at their bad timing. How is he supposed to get the lady to calm down, when calling him back implies that there's something wrong?

"It's really okay," he assures her again, stepping backwards toward the gate and trying not to trip over his own two feet, or the rug on the floor. "I'm just gonna—yeah."

He turns then, making his way to the back and he's really not sure what he's expecting to find.

"Stiles?" Deaton asks, blocking his view as he leans over the wounded animal.

"Yeah," he mumbles, not sure he wants to get a look. The smell of blood and antiseptics is so strong it nearly makes his eyes water, the harsh overhead lights not helping at all in the slightest.

"I need you to do something for me," he states calmly, glancing at Stiles from the corner of his eye and oh god, he's got a surgical mask on, the one on Scott's face identical to it.

"What's that?" he asks warily, eyeing the battery operated saw in Deaton's hand. What the hell?

"The dog's front leg is so badly injured that we can't save it, and I need Scott to hold it in place while I amputate," he starts, and_ oh_ Stiles might faint after all. Amputation?

"Okay," he says, voice just as faint as he feels. "What does that have to do with me?"

"I'm going to need you to hold bandages for me, and press them immediately to the wound once the procedure is done, do you hear me?" he asks, turning to fully look at Stiles now.

"Yeah," he answers, swallowing and looking around the room, everything suddenly a little fuzzy but for the poor thing laying on the stainless steel table.

"Excellent," Deaton murmurs, eyes crinkling up in a way that might mean he's smiling, and Stiles wonders how on Earth he can smile when he's going to _saw a dog's leg off_. He hands Stiles said saw a moment later, moving over to a cabinet. "Let me just get those bandages for you first, since you're not as familiar with everything as Scott and Isaac are."

Stiles stares down at the saw in his hand, moving his fingers to press down on the button just out of sheer curiosity—

_"Oh my god," he says, throwing the saw onto the table in front of him, low light glinting off of it, and he's pretty sure he's going to throw up or faint or both. He covers his mouth with one hand, just in case, turning his gaze to Derek's face instead of the nasty wound on his forearm, watching as he ties the tourniquet around his bicep._

_"What if you bleed to death?" he continues, flailing his hand around because he has no words for everything running through him right now. _

_"It'll heal if it works," Derek says, the words muffled just a bit because of the way he's using his teeth to get the tourniquet on right, and Stiles really might faint. If it heals. _If_._

_He shakes his head, letting out a breath and stamping down on the urge to run and just leave Derek there (like he probably deserves, if he's being honest). "Look," he starts, the gruesome black veins spreading up Derek's arm derailing his train of thought for the briefest of moments. "I don't know if I can do this." Derek's asking him to _cut off his arm_ and does Derek even _know_ how wrong and messed up that is? _

_"Why not?" Derek snaps, adjusting the tourniquet around his arm, tone impatient. Stiles supposes he understands, but really. What he's asking of Stiles is absolutely insane._

_"Well, because of the cutting through the flesh," he starts, trying so hard not to throw up at the thought of it, "the sawing of the bone, and especially the blood!" His voice cracks pathetically on the last word, but he can't help it. The amount of blood that will come from sawing an arm off is a very sickening thought. Why can't Derek understand that?_

_Derek sighs incredulously, pinning Stiles with an unimpressed stare. "What, you faint at the sight of blood?" he huffs, face even more intimidating than usual and dammit, Stiles is still afraid of him even when he's _dying_._

_"No," Stiles defends himself—because he _doesn't_. "But I might at the sight of a _chopped off arm_!" It's not a paper cut—it's a severed arm, and Stiles already has enough nightmare material, he doesn't need to add this to the list. _

_Derek sighs again, shaking his head like he's thinking. "All right, fine," he says, and Stiles almost thinks he's getting away without permanent psychological damage until— "How about this? Either you cut off my arm, or I'm gonna cut off your head."_

_His gaze is so intense it has Stiles worried for a moment, and then he scoffs, previous threats running through his head that never played out. "You know, I'm so not buying your threats anymo—" he starts, waving his hand around until Derek is leaning over the table, grabbing a fistful of Stiles's t-shirt, tugging him forward. "Oh my god. Okay. All right. Done. Sold. Totally. I'll do it, 'kay, I'll do it," he rambles, just trying to get Derek to stop being so damn _Derek_._

_He does seconds later, the older man's breath coming heavier, more pained, grip slackening the littlest bit on Stiles, and he can't help the worry that suddenly seizes him. "What? What are you doing?" he asks, warily watching as Derek leans over the side of the table. What is he doing? Is he doing what Stiles thinks he's doing? _

_There's the retching sound that generally accompanies vomiting, and black blood is suddenly spilling from Derek's mouth to splatter all over the linoleum floor. He lets go of Stiles just in time for him to flinch back from it, working hard not to vomit himself because— "Holy god, what the hell is that?"_

_"It's my body," Derek pants, "trying to heal itself."_

_"Well it's not doing a very good job of it," Stiles manages, voice cracking because he's going to faint or puke, or puke and then faint, and all over Derek too, because this is all his fault._

_Derek doesn't even deign that with a response, instead looking up at Stiles almost pleadingly, arm laid out on the table. "Now," he says, voice strained. "You gotta do it now."_

_Stiles waves his hand around again, trying to keep the nausea down. "Look, honestly I don't think I can—"_

_"Just do it!" Derek yells, and Stiles can't help flinching._

_"Oh my god," he says thoughtlessly, reaching for the saw. "Okay, okay," he starts, trying to prepare himself, shaky hands both gripping the saw so he doesn't drop it, hitting the button as a test run of sorts—again—before placing it against Derek's arm just below the tourniquet. "Oh god. All right, here we go!"_

_And he's not prepared for this at all, and it's probably going to make him violently ill and give him nightmares for years, but he'd probably feel guilty if he let Derek die, but all of the _blood_ and the _bone_ and the _blood_—_

_"Stiles?"_

_He pauses, head jerking up and turning toward the sound. "Scott?" he asks, hoping that it's him back with the bullet, because Stiles really can't do this._

"What the hell are you doing?" Scott asks, shaking Stiles's shoulder and Stiles can't help the way he jumps, voice cracking on what is definitely _not_ a squeal, saw clattering to the floor.

"What?" Stiles gasps, feeling like he's unable to draw in enough air, sweat sticking his hair to the back of his neck, his shirt to his skin. His eyes take in the clinic—bright in the light of day, not dark, Deaton and Scott staring at him as if he's sprouted a second head, and Derek is nowhere in sight.

_What?_

"Stiles?" Deaton asks, eyebrows furrowed, tone concerned. "Are you all right?"

_No_ he wants to answer. He's just had a terrifyingly realistic hallucination—maybe?—of cutting off Derek's arm in this very room. Derek, who they don't even know that well. Derek, who—in the hallucination—claimed his body would _heal_ from an _amputation_. Who needed Stiles to cut off his arm so he wouldn't _die_ from _something_, and Stiles is so confused that he's very, very far from all right.

"Yeah?" he finally says, tone nearly a question, hand reaching for Scott's to ground himself because he _needs_ it.

"Stiles, if you can't handle this task, you don't have to help. Scott and I can manage, even though it'd be easier with you," Deaton murmurs calmly, reaching down to pick the saw up off the floor. "You can leave if you need to."

It feels an awful lot like a masked guilt trip to Stiles, but he doesn't give in—can't right now—instead hanging his head and squeezing Scott's hand before letting go and backing toward the door. "Sorry. I'm—I'm not feeling well. I'm just gonna be in the Jeep 'til you get off or something," he mumbles, mostly to Scott.

"It's four hours until I get off," Scott says, eyebrows drawing together in the way they do when he frowns. Stiles _hates_ it when Scott frowns.

"That's okay," Stiles assures him, just needing to get _out_. "My backpack is in the Jeep—I'll just do homework or something. Don't worry dude, I'm fine." He's not, really, but Scott and Deaton have more to worry about right now than Stiles's overactive imagination.

"You're sure?" Scott asks, touching Stiles's arm gently—reassuringly.

"Positive," Stiles says, nodding and backing out the door with an apologetic nod to Deaton. "Sorry," he apologizes again. "I just—sorry."

And then he's turning on his heel, walking out as quickly as he can without running, trying to tune out the words.

"I thought you said he could handle blood?" Deaton's voice follows him into the corridor.

"He says he can…" Scott says, and then Stiles is in the lobby again, unable to hear them, and he's glad because he really doesn't want to listen to them talking about him. He really _can_ handle blood, it's just that—

_What, you faint at the sight of blood?_

_No, but I might at the sight of a _chopped off arm_!_

He shakes his head at himself, brushing past the couple still sitting in the chairs lining the wall, crawling into his Jeep and anxiously drumming his fingertips against the steering wheel. He really _should_ do his homework, but right now he highly doubts he can concentrate on math and economics and chemistry.

He debates with himself for a minute before pulling out a notebook at random and flipping to a blank page, making a list to research later. If he can wait that long.

_delusions?  
>hallucinations?<br>visions?  
>waking dreams?<br>DID?  
>schizophrenia?<br>…alternate realities?  
>rapid healing<br>things that heal from AMPUTATIONS  
>vomiting black blood<br>poisons that turn veins black_

Stiles is so caught up in staring at his list, thoughts running wild, that he doesn't even notice the time until Scott is getting in the Jeep. He jumps, hand splayed over his poor heart as he tries to just _breathe_. "Oh my god, Scott, don't scare me like that!"

Scott snickers, and the sound is so normal that it eases the tension that's been building in Stiles for the last four hours. He feels more relaxed than he has since the hallucination—daydream? vision?—and he slumps back into the seat, flipping his notebook closed before Scott can see what he's writing in it. Hopefully.

From the frown that flitters over his face that Stiles can see out of the corner of his eye, it doesn't go unnoticed, and Scott says so a moment later.

"That doesn't look like homework."

"Because it's not," Stiles mumbles, throwing the notebook behind the seats with his backpack and starting the Jeep up. This isn't really a conversation he wants to have on the road. "But we can talk about it at home, okay? I just. Yeah," he says eloquently. He just wants to talk about it never, pretend it never happened, because he doesn't know what the hell is going on. If he's going crazy, he really doesn't want to know about it.

"What happened in there?" Scott asks, and that's not a topic Stiles wants to breach right now either.

"I don't wanna talk about it while I'm driving, okay?" he says, hands clenching around the wheel, and he's never been more grateful that he's not too far from the clinic.

"Okay," Scott agrees easily enough, leaving them in a tense silence until Stiles pulls into the driveway, putting the Jeep in park.

Stiles turns to grab his notebook before fixing Scott with the most serious look he can manage. "You can't like…laugh or anything," he finally says, knowing the words sound ridiculous, but he can't think of anything better. Scott is more likely to sign him up and send him off to Eichen House than to laugh, but Stiles is trying to be positive here.

"Stiles what—" Scott starts, brows furrowing again, and Stiles just shakes his head, pushing Scott toward the door and getting out himself.

"Upstairs," Stiles says, coming around and placing his hands on Scotts waist to keep herding him inside. Also maybe because Stiles wants to ground himself a little bit, be sure that this is reality and that there's no Derek depending on him to save his life.

Stiles flops into his computer chair as soon as they're in his room, opening his laptop and waking it up. "Okay," he says, holding a hand out for his notebook. "First things first, I…don't know where to start."

"How about with this list?" Scott says like it's a question, reluctantly handing over the notebook to Stiles. "Like. What even is all of that stuff?"

"Uh…" Stiles mumbles, drawing the sound out as he thinks. "Maybe we'll start with the clinic." He spins around in his chair to see Scott standing behind him and he kicks the end of his bed, encouraging him to sit because Stiles can't take people looming over him right now. All Derek ever does is fucking _loom_.

"Okay," Scott concedes, sitting and fixing Stiles with this frown that makes him feel bad for having freaked out earlier. Scott should smile. He looks better when he smiles. It hides just how crooked his jaw is, really.

"So Deaton handed me the saw, right?" Stiles starts, unsure if he'll be able to stop once he gets going, so he holds a hand up to tell Scott to wait on questions. "And I just. I hit it you know, for curiosity's sake, because—well you know. And then suddenly it was like I wasn't even with you guys anymore. It was dark, and it was still the clinic, but it was just me and Derek—Derek of all people!-—and-and. And he had like this bullet wound I think, in his arm, and he kept telling me I had to cut his arm off? Like he was going to die if I didn't, and he was throwing up black blood, and Scott you should have seen his _arm_," he says, struggling not to gag, because it was _gross_. "Like oh my god Scott, it was so bad. And I tried to tell him no, but he threatened me Scott—like it was a normal thing! And-And I guess if I didn't he was going to die? He kept shouting that I needed to do it _now_, and all I remember is trying to stall until you got back to us? Like you were out somewhere, and I remember thinking we needed you to get back with a bullet to save Derek's life?

"And," he says, finally stopping for a real breath, fingers shaking in his lap. "And more so than like the fact that Derek wanted me to cut his arm off, or that he was throwing up nasty ass black blood all over the floor was the fact that he told me he would _heal_ from having his _arm cut off_," he finishes, hands running nervously through his hair, because that's not even—it shouldn't be possible.

"And it was so _vivid Scott_. Like I was there, and I had memories of things that I wasn't there for and?" he says, like a question, like he's pleading for Scott to help him figure this out, because this really shouldn't be a thing and he doesn't _understand._

Scott looks disbelieving at best, and yeah, maybe Stiles should have just kept this to himself, because Scott staring at him like he's insane really sucks. And it hurts.

"…I don't know what to say," Scott finally says, fixing Stiles with a look he can't quite pinpoint. "Has this happened before?"

Stiles feels mildly offended. "Don't you think I would have told you about it if it had?" he asks, frowning. "I tell you everything, dude."

Scott holds his hands up in a placating manner, stretching his legs out to tap his toes against Stiles's. "You're right," he agrees. "Do you remember anything else? Like you said you had memories from…there? So I mean, do you…remember what Derek…was?"

"No," Stiles groans, standing only to flip his chair around backwards so that he can sit again, leaning his head against the backrest. "I spent the last four hours trying to remember if I remembered anything and I don't."

"Hey, it's okay," Scott says, hands running through Stiles's hair the best they can considering how short it is. "Maybe you're just tired." And Stiles can tell that even Scott knows that's a load of bullshit.

"Maybe," he says half-heartedly, knowing that if he keeps on this train of thought he's going to just feel worse and worse. And on top of that, he'll be up all night researching things, and Stiles doesn't want that today—not when his Sunday was supposed to have been spent relaxing with Scott.

And so that's what prompts him to lean forward, rolling his chair just enough to press his lips to Scott's. He's dreading that maybe Scott will pull back, not want to kiss him if he knows Stiles might be going crazy, but he doesn't. He just lets out a little sound of surprise into Stiles's mouth, deepening the kiss, and Stiles has never been more grateful for Scott.

When Scott uses his tongue to coax Stiles's lips apart, licking into his mouth, he groans, leaning forward and overbalancing in his enthusiasm. It upends his chair, leaving Stiles sprawled half in Scott's lap, and half on the floor.

Stiles laughs first, Scott joining in as he helps Stiles up and onto the bed. "Dude, you okay?" he asks, laying himself over Stiles not unlike this morning. It's warm and comfortable and _normal_—something that Stiles needs considering what happened this afternoon.

Stiles grins, running his tongue along the inside of his lip. "M'fine," he says, fingers clutching at the hood of Scott's sweatshirt to drag him down for a kiss. It's slower then, all soft mouths and gentle licks to Stiles's lower lip because yeah, maybe he hit his face against Scott's knee and it's a little tender still.

And it's so easy to fall into the rhythm of kissing Scott that they only pull back when their mouths are too swollen and red to keep going. "It'll all be okay, you know," Scott whispers, so close their lips brush together as he speaks.

Stiles really isn't sure it will, but positive thinking does wonders he's been told, so he nods, swallowing and shooting Scott the best smile he can manage. "Yeah, okay."

It's silent for a beat, and then Scott is kissing him one more time, pulling him up to sit and shoving a controller into his hands with a mischievous grin. "How about a round, yeah?"

"Dude," Stiles says, unable to keep his own grin off his face. "You know I always kick your ass at this game."

"Do not!" Scott huffs, reaching out with his toes to switch the console on. He has a little more trouble with the TV, but Stiles is still impressed.

Stiles does though, and Scott knows it, and it's his way of trying to drag Stiles out of his funk, and he could just kiss Scott. So he does.

"That's cheating," Scott mumbles, sounding an awful lot like he doesn't really care as Stiles tilts his head for a better angle, licking over Scott's lip because he really just can't help himself. Kissing is great, but kissing Scott is better, and almost nothing makes Stiles feel better like physical affection does.

They play video games, and kiss, and Stiles quizzes Scott on the questions that will probably be on their history test tomorrow until Stiles's dad gets home with pizza. His mom is working a little extra to help cover Scott's mom's shifts, and so it's just the three of them at the dinner table. He thinks his dad does an amazing job of not bringing up the fact that it looks like Scott and Stiles have been making out for hours—which they have been—instead focusing on school, the day in general.

"The clinic went well," Stiles starts, swallowing down the discomfort that comes with thinking of what happened earlier. "Scott saved this poor dog's life, and I played the most important role of bringing them sustenance while they did so."

Scott nods along, thankfully not bringing up the biggest part of what happened, and instead helpfully switches the topic to Stiles's dad's work. "Did you get any interesting people into the station today?"

"We did, actually," the Sheriff starts, taking a bite of pizza and washing it down with soda before he continues. "We had this guy that was convinced he was a time traveler—we think. He kept saying he had to get back to his other life—something about a 'before?' We apprehended him because he was harassing this poor girl on the street, trying to claim they were dating," he finishes, shrugging. "We sent him off to be psychologically tested to see if it's Schizophrenia, and that's about the most interesting thing that happened today."

Stiles abruptly feels so sick he could actually throw up, and he's out of his seat before anyone can say anything else, pizza half-eaten on his plate.

"Stiles?!"

He can't tell if it's his dad or Scott calling out to him, but he can't be bothered to figure it out right now, not with his breathing speeding like it is, the thoughts running through his head. It's nowhere near the same situation, but it's similar enough that it makes Stiles's insides twist up so tightly it hurts, squeezes the breath from his lungs. He hasn't had a panic attack since the night they thought his mother had cancer, and it hits harder than it did then.

Scott reaches him first, hands smoothing over his cheeks, his dad's hands heavy and comforting on his shoulders. They sync their breathing, trying to get Stiles to match it, and it's hard, so hard with the way he's gasping for air, the way he _can't breathe_ that it takes him what must be minutes, but feels like hours, to finally fall into sync with them as well.

His eyes are wet, his chest hurts, his throat feels raw, and Scott's concerned face before him, his dad's he can see out of the corner of his eye are just…too much for him right now. He attempts to squirm out of their grip, but they hold on, keeping him rooted in place, and Stiles tries to squash the panic that wants to rise up again.

"Stiles, what—" his dad starts, voice so worried that Stiles feels guilty for being the cause of the tone.

"Psychological evaluation—" Stiles chokes out, anxiety seizing him at the very thought of it. "I don't wanna go through that."

"Stiles, why would—" his dad begins again, but Scott cuts in, thumbs smoothing over his cheeks to try to calm him.

"Hey, you won't okay?" Scott says, voice warm and comforting. "It's not even the same thing—not even close."

"But it _is_, Scott," Stiles manages around the lump lodged in his throat. It is, because Stiles was planning to talk to Derek tomorrow after school, to grill him on everything he possibly could, to find some kind of connection—the same way the guy had been harassing the poor girl because he'd been convinced they were dating. "It is, and Scott I don't want to—dad don't make me—" He can't even get the rest of the words out, abruptly tired and sick and so ready for bed. Maybe this is all a bad dream, and he'll wake up in the morning to a completely normal life.

"But Stiles, what…what are you talking about, son?" his dad asks, voice hesitant, confused, and Stiles really can't do this.

"I'm going to bed," Stiles says in lieu of an answer, waving his hands at Scott, trying to explain without words that he should tell Stiles's dad about the weird part of the day because Stiles just _can't_.

"Okay…" they both mumble, watching warily as Stiles climbs the stairs and crawls into bed. He knows he's probably making a big deal out of nothing—everyone has weird, vivid, terrifying daydreams every once in a while, right?

"No they don't," he groans to himself, face pressed into his pillow and blankets wrapped around himself as if that could protect him from his own mind.

Several minutes later finds Stiles chewing anxiously on the corner of his comforter. Footsteps pad across the floor behind him, too heavy to be Scott's, and then his dad's hand is on his shoulder, pressing lightly against his hair. "Hey, it'll be okay kiddo, you hear me?" he says softly, and Stiles thinks he might cry.

"Yeah," he manages instead, freeing one hand to squeeze at his dad's. "Thanks dad."

"Get some sleep," his dad adds, returning the squeeze to Stiles's hand before backing out of the room.

He's alone for all of two seconds before Scott is there, crawling into bed and draping himself over Stiles from behind. It's a solid, comforting, warm presence, and Stiles is grateful for it, pressing back into Scott's arms. "…How come I'm always the little spoon?" he asks after a beat, trying to make things normal again, to distract from the fact that he's exhausted and panicky and he's in bed even though it's barely eight.

Scott laughs, nosing into his neck. "Because you like being the little spoon," he says, shushing him when Stiles opens his mouth to protest. "Trust me, we tried, remember? And you complained that your arm fell asleep."

And Stiles really can't deny that, huffing out something of a laugh, and twining his fingers with Scott's. "Yeah, I remember."

"So instead of your arm falling asleep, I want _you_ to fall asleep, because trust me dude, you need it," Scott murmurs softly, kissing over Stiles's shoulder, and it helps to ease the anxiety that's trying to build up again.

"'Kay," Stiles mumbles through a yawn, readjusting just a little so his head's more comfortably on the pillow, and then before he knows it he's out like a light. _Maybe tomorrow will go better_, he thinks, just before he's out for good. _Maybe everything will be normal again_.


End file.
